


Lemniscate

by Ireliss



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24964396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ireliss/pseuds/Ireliss
Summary: After he kills Vladimir and Ivan Sharkovsky, Yassen returns to Venice. There, he receives a dinner invitation from Julia Rothman.
Relationships: Yassen Gregorovich/Julia Rothman
Comments: 7
Kudos: 24





	Lemniscate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kink meme prompt:
> 
> _In Russian Roulette, Julia Rothman tells Yassen that he's 'extraordinarily good-looking' but doesn't take things any further. But what if she did? You could have John step in to protect Yassen from unwanted attention, or you could make this super dark._
> 
> Needless to say, this fic goes the dark route. Enjoy!

“So Vladimir Sharkovsky is dead. And you’ve killed his son too? Well done.” Julia Rothman smiles at him from across the table, lifting her glass in a toast. The champagne – an expensive Moët & Chandon vintage – gleams bright as a golden coin in the candlelight.

“We all had high hopes for you,” she continues, “but I confess none of us were sure if our investment would pay off. It was clear to us you lacked a killing instinct when you first arrived.”

Yassen stays silent, ruthlessly quashing down the part of him that longed to ask: _Why? Why me?_

Mrs Rothman must sense the unspoken question, but she doesn’t deign to enlighten him. Instead, she smiles, the curve of her painted red lips a scythe’s blade. “You must tell me what changed. Was John Rider’s tutelage so effective?”

_Hunter._ Anger flares in Yassen’s chest, but again he’s quick to smother it. Emotions have no place in the life of a contract killer. Especially not emotions which can betray him. He’s already decided to keep the truth to himself – a repayment of the life debt he owes Hunter. Let the slate be wiped clean.

“He was a good teacher,” is all he says, and Mrs Rothman leans forward. A hungry light glitters in her eyes.

“The two of you, you were very close?”

Uncomfortably, Yassen is reminded of the rumours that Mrs Rothman has a very _personal_ interest in Hunter. “He saved my life,” he says cautiously, sticking to the facts. It seems safer.

“I’ve read the mission report.” One of Mrs Rothman's hands reaches out. Her long fingers brush against Yassen’s throat, tracing the angry red line that slashed its way across his neck. Yassen’s skin crawls. “He must be fond of you, to risk the mission just to save your life. Any other operative would simply have shot the Commander and left you to your fate.”

Yassen couldn’t think of a response.

“And you were equally fond of him, weren’t you? Your instructors at Malagosto said you followed him around like he hung the moon in the sky.” Mrs Rothman smiles again. Her fingers are still resting against his neck, over the beat of his pulse. “A very fruitful partnership. And we have the whole evening for you to tell me all about it!”

Yassen forces himself to remain stock still. “Of course, Mrs Rothman. Anything you want to know.”

“Julia, please.”

“Julia,” he echoes, although he can’t imagine thinking of her as anything except Mrs Rothman. Over their meal of oysters and champagne he describes the weeks he had spent together with Hunter. Mrs Rothman is particularly interested in their time in Paris, and despite himself, Yassen finds himself describing Notre-Dame and the Louvre, the long walks along the Seine, the deep red of pomegranates and grenadine…

(He carefully blots out the memory of Sacré-Cœur, the memory of Hunter’s arms around the woman, the tender way he had stroked her hair.)

The candles burn on, casting warm shadows across the table. Mrs Rothman’s staff clear away their empty plates. Surely the evening must be just about over, and just as the thought crosses Yassen’s mind, Mrs Rothman stands. Her eyes are lidded, and she watches Yassen with unblinking focus. “Did you enjoy the meal?”

“Very much.”

“I did too.” She steps closer, close enough that Yassen catches a hint of perfume, the scent of rose with something darker and undefinable underlying it. “You know, killing changes a person. I’ve once said that you’re a good-looking man and I think you’ve been even further improved now. Perhaps we have John to thank for that?”

Mrs Rothman is very close now. Her hair brushes against the scar on his neck. Yassen is forcibly reminded of the black widow that had clung there, right against his pulse, its delicate legs exploring him with deadly, emotionless curiosity.

Only this time, there is no Hunter here to save him.

“Why don’t we take this to a more comfortable place?” Mrs Rothman murmurs.

Refusal is not an option. Not with Scorpia. Not with Mrs Rothman. Yassen bows his head, feeling the chains of servitude settle around his neck once more.

Perhaps those chains had never been broken in the first place.

***

They end up in a bedroom. The lights are dim, and candlelight shines off the golden threads woven into the canopy bed. There are no windows, nor are there any exits except for the door they had entered through. A bathroom adjoins the bedchamber and there is a walk-in closet; easy places to hide an agent. The creamy wallpaper is subtly patterned and adorned with several paintings of Italian landscapes. Perhaps they conceal hidden cameras.

Is this Mrs Rothman’s room? Somehow, Yassen doubts it. It is a beautiful room filled with beautiful things, but an emptiness lurks here, and he is reminded of the guest rooms in the _dacha_ he had spent so many hours cleaning to a flawless impersonal shine.

“All satisfied?” Mrs Rothman glances at him over her shoulder. “There are no assassins waiting in the walls to ambush you, I promise.”

No. If Julia Rothman wanted him dead, he would already be dead. Yassen steps fully into the room, allowing the door to click shut behind him. Quietly, he wishes he had more of that champagne at dinner. He wishes the Countess’ lessons had covered this sort of scenario. He wishes he knows whether he is here as an object of curiosity or as a slave.

Mrs Rothman lets down her hair. The dark strands cascade down her shoulders, sliding smoothly against her pale skin. “No need to be shy, Yassen. Make yourself at home.”

He takes a cautious step closer. Mrs Rothman flicks him another glance, the beginnings of impatience sharpening her eyes, and Yassen closes the distance between them in three flowing strides. “May I help you? Julia.”

“You’re very well-mannered,” she says indulgently, taking his hands into her own. Yassen wonders, briefly, how many deaths those hands had caused. Then he has no time to wonder any more as those smooth hands guide his own upwards to rest against her neck. She is wearing a necklace of pearls, each warmly iridescent, their lustre setting off the marble-like paleness of her neck. Under her direction, he unlatches the clasp that holds the necklace in place, then carefully sets it aside as she tilts her head back with a pleased sigh.

Her eyes rake over him. Yassen has the good sense to straighten, standing at careful attention as Mrs Rothman appraises him with the scrutiny of a breeder looking over a prized dog. He does not move as her hands settle on lapels of his suit jacket and slowly peels it off him, revealing the trim lines of his body under the dress shirt.

“You’re stiff as a statue.” Amusement curls through the remark. “In fact, I’ve seen statues less stiff than you are. Go ahead. You can touch me.”

She takes his hands again, guiding him to rest one hand against her hip, the other against the small of her back in an imitation of a lover’s embrace. Yassen breathes evenly, holding her as she unknots his tie and sets it to one side – though, he notes, she keeps it close at hand. The next thing to go are his buttons, then his whole shirt is being slid off his shoulders, fabric whispering against his skin as he lets go of Mrs Rothman just long enough for the shirt to drop onto the floor in a discarded heap.

She smiles. Her palm rests dead centre on his chest, all five fingers outstretched. “Very nice, but I’m not surprised. I’ve always had a good eye for these things. You’re the perfect student, aren’t you? A blank slate. Well—” her eyes fall on the line across his neck, “—not _entirely_ blank.”

The scent of roses fills Yassen’s nostrils as Mrs Rothman closes the last bit of space between them. Her lips are warm against his neck, sucking lightly at the delicate skin there. It takes all of Yassen’s self-control not to shove her away. “You’ll carry that scar with you forever,” she murmurs, right against his throat. “Does that thought excite you? Having John’s mark on you for the rest of your life…”

Yassen exhales harshly.

“You like that, don’t you?”

“An assassin should be unidentifiable.” One of Hunter’s earliest lessons. “A scar like this is too distinct.”

Mrs Rothman shushes him, resting one finger against his lips. “You have no idea how to enjoy yourself, do you? Enough talk of business.”

“Yes. As you say.”

“You learn quickly.” A tug on his wrist, pulling him towards the bed. “I can see why John likes you.”

Carefully, Yassen wills his expression blank. He does not know how well his barriers stand up to Mrs Rothman’s hungry scrutiny, but she seems pleased enough, the corners of her mouth tilted up in an amused smile. “You’re very inexperienced, isn’t that right? Don’t worry, I’m happy to be your teacher for the evening.”

Following Mrs Rothman’s unspoken orders, Yassen lowers himself onto the bed as Mrs Rothman slips off her heels and joins him there. She settles with lazy grace on top of his lap, sleek and satisfied as a panther that had just brought down a kill. Her dress spills down her body like ink.

“Here, just like this…”

A zipper runs down the back of her dress; Yassen slowly pulls it down, Mrs Rothman’s hands resting lightly on his all the while. She seems to take delight in guiding him, her touch never once leaving his skin as he peels the dress away, revealing gentle sloping curves utterly at odds with the sharpness of her red-lipped smile. Yassen has never seen so much of a woman’s bare skin, and certainly not at such close quarters — he finds it, _interesting,_ he thinks. Life and vitality, a world away from the splatter of blood against the uncaring ground of New York.

The bra goes next, his fingers working deftly at the clasp to unhook the piece of lacy fabric and slip it off. Mrs Rothman gives him no time to look. She stretches languorously against him, arms wrapping his neck and shoulders, just tight enough to send tension arcing up his spine.

“Are you still nervous?” She shakes her head, the ends of her hair tickling at his jaw. “Poor boy. Let’s see if we can’t get you more comfortable.”

Mrs Rothman had kept Yassen’s tie close at hand all this time. She picks it up now, turning it over in her hands, and Yassen has no choice but to sit there with dread and relief warring inside him as she folds the tie in half, forming a sturdy strip of cloth.

“Close your eyes.”

He obeys. A moment later, silk whispers against his eyelids, and he feels the shift of cloth in a band around his head as Mrs Rothman secures the tie to form a blindfold. Her hands linger when she’s done, stroking slowly through his hair in approval. “Isn’t that better? Now you only have to focus on me.”

Yassen knows what is expected of him. His lessons at the _dacha_ had been thorough. “Thank you.”

In a way, it is easier now that he has been robbed of his sight. There is no longer any expectation that he keep his eyes on Mrs Rothman, responding to every unspoken cue, every glance laden with meaning. Instead, it’s solely her touch and voice that guide him. She knows exactly what she wants; fingers twist against the short hair at his nape, pushing his head down until his mouth brushes against the dip of her collarbone. The delicate scent of roses surrounds him. He kisses lightly at the skin and is rewarded with a low murmur of praise.

Hands push and pull at him, positioning him as if he’s nothing more than a toy doll. One of his hands are guided upwards to cup something soft and weighty — a breast? Curiosity lights his mind briefly. He squeezes, slow, careful, feeling the flesh yield and give under his touch. It contrasts against the firm, flat plane of the breastbone under his lips as Mrs Rothman tugs on his hair and leads him in mapping a winding path down her body.

He pauses and lingers briefly at the spot where the sternum ends and the ribcage flares out, hard protective bone giving way to the softer tissues of the abdomen. The contrast is a fascinating one, and just as fascinating is the sensation of curves under his exploratory hands and lips; Yassen is more used to the angular lines of a male body. He rests one hand against her hip, comparing its arch to the narrower, more rectangular shapes of his memories. Anything to distract his mind from thinking too hard on what will come next.

“Why don’t you lie down? Right there, just like that.” A shadow falls over him, discernible even through the blindfold. A finger traces against his mouth, catching at his lower lip, a sure sign of what is to come.

Yassen allows instinct and memory to take over, rearranging himself to a more comfortable position on the bed. He’s careful to tilt his head back, allowing his lips to part slightly, mouth easily accessible.

“That’s very good, Yassen.” Fingers skim against his hair, then abruptly tighten into an iron grip holding him in place. He hears the shift of fabric whispering across skin, and the bed dips as Mrs Rothman prowls closer and the grip on his hair tightens even further. Yassen does not fight as his head is pushed down.

The first thing he is aware of is the heat. It radiates against his cheek, the bridge of his nose, a damp scented heat that settles over his senses like heavy fog.

The second, Mrs Rothman’s voice again: “Show me what you can do with your tongue.” The order is spoken barely above a murmur but delivered with the confidence of someone unused to disobedience. It’s just as well that Yassen sees no reason not to obey; he knows better than to engage in an unwinnable battle. There is value in biding his time.

His tongue darts out in an exploratory lick. Mrs Rothman tastes — for want of a better word — _sharp,_ unfamiliar. He draws the tip of his tongue slowly against the soft folds, tracing against the edges of the lips, grateful for the blindfold that hides the furrow of his brow. It’s hard to breathe. The heat is almost a physical presence, a suffocating force pressing down on his airways, matched only by the pressure of Mrs Rothman’s grip on the back of his neck. Claustrophobia chokes him. Yassen shakes it off. He has been through worse before, and, considering his new association with Scorpia, he will commit worse in the future.

Mrs Rothman murmurs silky words of encouragement, guiding him along with sharp tugs on his hair. Her thighs bracket his head, just another thing penning him in, keeping him in place until this trial is over. Well, if that is what she wants, then that is what Yassen will give her. Long years of practice means he is adept at disappearing into the privacy of his own thoughts until the unpleasantness in the real world is over and done with. It had been a survival mechanism. Yassen relies on this skill now, carefully folding into himself until the world goes quiet and muted. The heat is no longer quite so intense. The soft, wet noises fade into the background, unremarkable as the hushed whispers of canals in the Venetian night-time. It is as though his body is no longer quite under his control, and some other stranger is the one lying on the bed, fingers twisting through the Egyptian cotton sheets as he licks and licks, surrounded on all sides by the velvety blackness of the blindfold.

Something changes. A sense of urgency. Mrs Rothman pushes against him, all smothering heat, her grip on his hair harsh enough to send reflexive tears pricking at Yassen’s eyes. His lashes flicker uneasily beneath the blindfold, all too aware of the vulnerability of his exposed neck, and equally aware that there is little he can do to defend himself should anything happen. Best to end things as quickly as he can. He continues to sweep his tongue along the soft folds, focusing his attention on the small nub he can feel, alternating between teasing strokes with the tip of his tongue and slow, broad licks, gradually increasing the tempo.

It starts slowly at first: a faint tremble, a sigh, the painful twist of fingers against his hair. Then a full-body shudder. Abruptly, the grip on his hair loosens, and he can hear the sharp deep _inhale-exhale_ of somebody getting their breathing back under control after a period of exertion.

Yassen is sorely tempted to pull away and rip off the blindfold, but he has come too far now to throw everything away in a moment of impatience. He stays where he is, calm and self-contained, until he feels the mattress dip once more and the oppressive heat vanishes. His ears catch the rustle of cloth followed by footsteps heading into the direction of the bathroom.

It is likely that Mrs Rothman intends for him to stay as he is until her return, but if she wants mindless obedience, she should have bought herself a male companion instead of taking a trained Scorpia assassin to bed. Yassen still has his pride. He sits up in one fluid movement, tugging off the blindfold.

After so long spent in darkness, even the dim light of the room is enough to make him squint. A quick look around reveals that Mrs Rothman had indeed stepped into the bathroom, closing the door behind her. Yassen is alone. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.

Time for the clean-up. This is not so different from any other mission. Yassen gets to his feet, picking up the discarded articles of clothing on the floor and methodically gets dressed, suit first, then tie, and lastly the jacket, straightening all of it out until there is not a single crease or wrinkle out of place. He rubs absently at his mouth and swipes his tongue around the area, unable to hold back a slight grimace at the taste. His hair is even worse; Yassen tries to smooth it flat, but his scalp aches and his hair remains an unruly mess. He makes a note to cut it as soon as possible. Something close-cropped would be nice, he thinks. Practical.

Mrs Rothman returns just as he finishes tidying up. She looks exactly the same as she had at the start of the night, her hair pinned up again, not a single glossy dark strand out of place. Even the pearl necklace is glimmering around her neck once more. She smiles at him, a red smile sharp enough to cut.

“That was fun, wasn’t it? I’m not sure if we’ll do this again any time soon, considering how busy you’ll be over the next few months. A shame, to be sure, but I daresay we’ll both find other diversions to keep ourselves amused in the meantime.”

_Busy?_ This is the first time since his return from Russia that he’s heard of new work coming his way. Yassen straightens subtly, standing at attention.

Mrs Rothman smiles at his interest. “I’ve decided to put you back together with John. You have potential and you’ve shown yourself to be resourceful, but compared to most of our Malagosto graduates, you’re still lacking in field experience. I believe sending you on a few more missions with one of Scorpia’s top operatives will benefit us all immensely in the long run.”

Yassen fights to keep his expression unreadable even as his heart jumps – although not even he can tell whether the complicated mix of emotions roiling through him is anger or anticipation or something else entirely. It is one thing to forget about a little Power Plus battery he had only seen by fickle chance. It is quite another to spend months with Hunter and continually turn a blind eye to his betrayal. If Hunter is ever found out (and Yassen is sure he will be, someday, eventually), then Yassen’s loyalty will be called into question as well.

Is it worth it?

“Yassen?” Julia Rothman watches him closely. “I thought you would be happier at the news.”

“I was led to believe I would be working independently from now on.”

“Little birds are always eager to leave the nest, I suppose,” Mrs Rothman says, amused. “But it would be a shame if you burned your wings off right away. Not to mention a waste of an investment besides.”

Everything always comes down to money. Yassen inclines his head in acknowledgement. The matter had already been decided; his opinion is, as always, irrelevant.

“John should be returning from his current mission tomorrow. He will contact you with the details of your next mission when he is ready. Do give him my regards when you see him.”

And just like that, Yassen is dismissed, an object tucked away into the back of the shelf until the next time someone has a use for him.


End file.
